


Chaos Theory

by blackazuresoul



Category: Trinity Blood
Genre: Blow Jobs, Cock Tease, Desk Sex, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 20:59:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/458318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackazuresoul/pseuds/blackazuresoul
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Deliciously sadistic Isaak and insanely masochistic Dietrich. Please enjoy!!</p><p>A/N: This is the first full-length fic I’ve written for the fandom; everything to date being drabbles. Orignally written in 2008.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chaos Theory

Each time he found himself within Isaak’s dangerous company, Dietrich felt a small part of what could be loosely considered the remnants of his humanity slipping away. He was addicted and he knew it. Addicted to the fierce and brutal Magician, to the dark aura that surrounded him and penetrated him with nothing more than a fog-coloured gaze leveled his way. Isaak was like that. Enigmatic, intense and cloaked in his favoured shadows. And Dietrich couldn’t escape if he wanted to.  
  
Often, the Marionettenspieler would press his luck, if only to evoke Isaak’s anger; to call up his ire for the singular purpose of feeling his own blood flow beneath the man’s fingers. Sometimes it would work and others not. Isaak would see through Dietrich’s pantomime and with a hand, wave the boy toward the door. It would frustrate him, to be dismissed so readily when it was evident the shadow mage was clearly interested. Isaak sat in the plush, high-backed chair, long legs elegantly crossed, a cigarillo smouldering from between gloved fingers and a raging hard-on beneath worsted wool trousers. Yet, a gloved hand rose through the veil of smoke to silently put an end to Dietrich’s lascivious machinations.  
  
That was a week ago.  
  
Tonight’s game was nearly assured! Nothing infuriated his mentor more than if Dietrich sought out a surrogate for his passions, particularly if it involved the Baron of Luxor. Dietrich suspected the pair of them had some kind of history, though he wouldn’t put too fine a point on it– it didn’t matter. He didn’t trust Radu as far as he could throw the traitor, but he was a pleasant diversion and it never failed to peel a smile on the redhead’s face when Flamberg, despite his status as a Methuselah, offered himself up to be played with like the puppet he was.  
  
Dietrich knew his dalliances came at a high and painful price where Isaak was concerned. But it was worth the bruises and blood to see the mage so irritated. The curses that spilled from Isaak’s lips as he fucked the insolence out of the younger man between the screams that ripped from Dietrich’s throat drove the teen’s desire for him. Never was he so sure of his worth to the Panzermagier than when taken to hell in his embrase.  
  
Isaak sat at his desk, one of his cigarillos clamped between his teeth and the nib of a pen scritching along an ecru piece of parchment. Dietrich came through the tall door of his study, his lithe body hugged by his Orden uniform and rough-cut hair framing his pretty features. If Isaak had bothered to look up, he would have seen the determined set to the boy’s shoulders to match the smug smirk that danced over cupid-bow lips. But the pen continued on its course, finally ending in a flourish that marked Isaak’s signature.  
  
He holstered the pen then set the parchment to the side and grey eyes rolled up to watch Dietrich seat himself in a leather chair. “Have you come to torment me yet again, childe?” Isaak murmured, tidying his desk then sat back, elbows on the chair arms. His steepled fingers sat above his waist as he regarded Dietrich. “Once again, your timing is poor,” he told him and the teen crossed an ankle over knee and rested his chin in the cup of his palm.  
  
“A thousand pardons, Herrgott,” Dietrich mocked, the pads of his fingers softly drumming along his cheek. “You _did_ request a weekly report this evening,” he reminded the older male, a finger on his free hand tracing the seam of his boot.  
   
Isaak’s brow went up with the insolent tone and the tip of his tongue passed along the seam of his lips then retreated as he spoke. “Do get on with it then, boy. I am extraordinarily busy,” he urged and rolled his crossed ankle, waiting for Dietrich’s lyrical voice to fill the room.  
  
Dietrich inspected his fingernails, each one finely manicured to short, sharp points. He picked beneath one, absently flicking a bit of flesh to the expensive rug beneath; feeling Isaak’s eyes on him. He met the magician’s gaze and smiled sweetly, his hands curling loosely around the stylised ends of the chair arms. “My report will be brief, Meister,” he began then dropped his crossed leg to hook his ankles. They rose to prop on the edge of Isaak’s desk. “The Baron of Luxor has been performing as planned and poor Ion still refuses to believe that his Tovarăş betrayed him.” Dietrich tsked then loosed a chuckle to the mural that covered the ceiling.  
  
When he again caught Isaak’s eyes, they were still trained on him; even as he leaned forward to light another thin cigar. The perfumed smoke ribboned above his raven head and Isaak sat back in the chair. “Such is the problem with the those of the New Empire, my dear. They tend to let themselves be governed by human emotion.” White teeth shined behind the rolling smoke that left Isaak’s lips. “Isn’t that right, Dietrich? Weakness for the flesh– undisciplined. Emotions– unconstrained. No true Methuselah would allow himself to be controlled, manipulated by these things. No matter the source of temptation, ja?”  
  
Dietrich watched the bluish smoke caper on the air, avoiding the man’s eyes. It was clear Isaak knew what he’d been up to and he couldn’t help but wonder what gave it away. Was it the mage’s shadows that played witness to Dietrich’s dealings with Radu? “The shadow daemons?” Dietrich surmised aloud, arrogantly propping hands beneath his head as he lounged. Isaak let a lungful of smoke curl around his tongue while the boy spoke, it twisting over his lips to momentarily split his face. He rested his arms on the desk and blinked long black lashes once.  
  
“I wouldn’t be that gauche,” he told Dietrich, rolling the tip of his cigarillo against the side of an ashtray then smoothly rose to his feet, the sweep of his hair whispering along the leather seat as he stepped out from behind the desk.  
  
Isaak paced around the large piece of furniture, a gloved hand gently laying over Dietrich’s feet, nudging them from the edge. The teen complied, watching his mentor from the corner of his eye as he again crossed an ankle over knee.The cigarillo, cradled between Isaak’s sensual lips, bobbed softly as he drew shallow puffs from it. Hands sharply met the arms of Dietrich’s chair and he leveled his gaze with the young man. “I can smell him on you, boy,” he finally answered, a thick strand of ebony hair dropping to Dietrich’s thigh. “Pathetic whore,” Isaak whispered around the cigarillo and two fingers came up to pull it away from the embrase of his lips. “Do anything for Methuselah cock, wouldn’t you, my dear?”  
  
The Panzermagier caressed Dietrich’s cheek, the soft material of his glove stimulating nerve endings and the redhead closed his eyes. Covered fingertips glided along the angle of his jaw and over the fullness of Dietrich’s lower lip. The vanilla/clove scent of Isaak’s smoke flirted with his nose and he could feel the heat emanating from the tip of the cigarillo as Isaak’s fingers moved lower. “You presume much, Isaak,” Dietrich informed him. He kept his eyes closed, hyperaware of the hot point that was inches away from the flesh of his throat.  
  
“Is that so?” the older man purred near his ear and Dietrich gasped as Isaak’s hand fitted around his throat. Caramel eyes shot open and he froze, only exhaling to gulp another breath when the hand loosened its grip in favour of bringing the cigarillo briefly to Isaak’s lips. He drew in a lungful then lowered the ember end of the stick close to Dietrich’s left cheek, its heat threatening to sear an ugly path along his flawless skin. He sat stark still as Isaak’s cigarillo drew near his left eye, the smoke irritating the delicate tissue.  
  
Isaak chuckled lowly then straightened and tossed the smoke into his ashtray. His gaze bore down onto the younger man and he captured Dietrich’s chin in a firm grip, noting a solitary tear that wended down his pinkened cheek. “I abhor liars, Dietrich,” he stated evenly, his thumb capturing the drop, the moisture wicking into the material of his glove. “Particularly poor ones,” he added and released the boy’s chin.  
  
Dietrich scoffed, despite the discomfort of Isaak’s grip and peered up at him through a tangle of long bangs. “Perhaps I never gained your expertise with it, Isaak,” he countered and the smirk sailed from his lips as the man’s palm harshly crossed his cheek, the slap echoing in the study.  
  
“Watch your tongue with me!” Isaak growled, his brow furrowing further when Dietrich turned his gaze upward. His cheek bloomed a dark pink and yet the boy smiled; a disgustingly ribald simper.  
  
“My tongue has never been an issue between us, now has it?” Dietrich posed around his libidinous grin. A brow arched and Isaak could feel the thin fingers of the Marionettenspieler’s consciousness wend into his brain; seeking what he had always denied the young man. Isaak pushed him out.  
  
“Get out of my head, you little shit!” he hissed, grabbing Dietrich by the Orden-issued tie around his neck and pulled him to his feet. “I am _not_ that simple-minded corpse you insist upon using when you don’t get your way.” Dietrich’s eyes flashed for a second and he bit back the toothy smile that wanted to bask before the dark mage. “When last you left here, I knew you were up to something. Though I confess I hadn’t thought of necrophilia.” Isaak let go of the length of knotted silk and slipped off his jacket as he rounded the desk to resume his seat.  
He laid the garment over the credenza behind the chair and sat, a hand loosening his own tie.  
  
Dietrich’s hands quietly met the other side of Isaak’s desk and he leered down at the raven, one narrow hip cocked as he bent. “If you would have allowed me to remain, we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” he suggested and Isaak leaned back in his chair.  
  
“Nor should we be having it. Get out.”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Dietrich. Do not test me.”  
  
The redhead put a quick hand through his hair as Isaak lit another cigarillo, the palm slapping his own thigh in frustration. “You pull me to you, only to push me away; then have the nerve to get mad when I find someone else to play with!” Dietrich protested, sounding every bit like the brat he was, to Isaak’s mind. He took another pull on his smoke and exhaled slowly.  
  
“Someone else to play with?” Isaak parroted. “My dear, half the Empire has _played_ with you! I have yet to discern precisely where your loyalties lay.” He let the corner of his mouth briefly curve as he answered his own question. “Likely between your thighs, hmm?” Dietrich pouted, crossing his arms, but remained silent. “You are boring me, childe. Oh, good evening,” Isaak murmured, annoyed; a hand gesturing toward the door. His eyes fell to the blotter on his desk, intent on resuming the work that had been interrupted by the boy’s presence.  
  
“I’m not leaving, Isaak,” Dietrich shot back and put a knee to the smooth surface of the desktop, his other knee joining the first, nudging several papers stacked at the corner. They floated to the floor as Dietrich crouched on the balls of his feet long enough to move in front of Isaak and he then sat on the blotter, his legs bent over the edge of the furniture. Isaak looked up at him incredulously, a black brow cocked, but watched the boy slip off his own jacket. It was tossed carelessly to the floor, the tie following.  
  
“Dietrich, don’t piss me off,” Isaak warned, but remained seated, a hand now holding up his chin, its elbow bent on the chair arm.  
  
Dietrich ignored the impotent caution spoken from blush lips, his fingers slipping pearlised buttons free of their moorings. He let the shirt fall open and leaned back on a rigid arm behind him, his free hand feathering down the pale expanse of his bared chest. Grey eyes attended that thin hand, narrowing as it toyed with the buckle on Dietrich’s trousers. “Don’t worry, I won’t piss you off,” the teen purred then fit a hand beneath his open fly, grappling his cock through the white underclothes.  
  
Isaak watched Dietrich handle himself through the thin material, his irritation at him melting; only to return when he propped booted feet on either arm of the magician’s chair. “Slut,” Isaak drawled. Grey eyes focused on Dietrich’s hand as it moved out of his pants, the boy’s sharp nails drawing thin crimson lines along his abdomen. Small tears of blood dotted the wounds and Isaak licked his lips, the scant scent seducing his nose. “Tease,” the raven added and held back a groan when Dietrich licked his own fingers of the precious drops.  
  
“Don’t you want me– _Daddy_?” Caramel eyes went coy and he gave a meaningful suck to the pad of a finger.  
  
“Don’t call me that,” Isaak growled then took the hand out from under his chin and pulled off its glove with his teeth. He spat it out and ran the tip of his index finger along one of the scratches on Dietrich’s stomach then brought it to his mouth, tasting the puppetmaster’s essence.  
  
“Ah yes, you prefer _Meister_ , ja,” Dietrich affirmed, sitting up to unbutton Isaak’s dress shirt, meeting the man’s eyes.  
  
“Ingratiating brat,” Isaak countered, his eyes hooding as Dietrich’s hands mapped his chest, smaller fingers trailing lower to open the man’s pants. He slid off the desk and to his knees to get at what he wanted. Isaak had called him spoiled but Dietrich had a different moniker for it.  
Long fingers threaded into the teen’s hair as Dietrich took Isaak into his mouth, a controlled sound escaping the mage’s lips that were clamped around his smoke. He had presence of mind to press it out in the ashtray and with the last lungful, spurred the boy on. “You never look lovelier than you do with my dick in your mouth, Marionettenspieler,” he observed lowly and dipped his chin to watch Dietrich suck him.  
  
Dietrich ran his tongue along the underside of Isaak’s cock and around the smooth head, willing his mouth to produce more saliva. He knew that whatever lubrication he could provide with his mouth and tongue would be all Isaak would allow before fucking him stupid.  
The redhead slobbered along Isaak, giving him a powerful suck that drew the man’s nails against his scalp. Isaak smirked down at him, his hand pulling Dietrich’s mouth from his dick.

  
“You learn quickly, Terran,” he praised, the tip of his tongue touching a tooth as he watched a line of saliva trail down the young man’s chin. Dietrich frowned at the name; he didn’t like being associated with what amounted to cattle but he only answered with the passing of his tongue over the moist slit at the head of Isaak’s cock.  
  
Isaak’s elegant hand was insistent at the back of his skull, forcing him down and engaging Dietrich’s gag reflex, resultant tears pricking his eyes. His head bobbed in a languid rhythm, hands clawing at Isaak’s legs as he sucked. The man’s scent was pure sex; intoxicating and Dietrich allowed his mouth to be used, though he supposed it wasn’t so much him permitting it as it was Isaak taking what he wanted.  
  
The hand yanked Dietrich back by his hair and Isaak’s eyes bore down on him from above, a twisted grin on his handsome face. It was then Dietrich knew he’d get his way; otherwise, Isaak would have came in his mouth– or on his face– then would step over his kneeling body and leave the room. Dietrich also knew that look Isaak fitted him with; the one that promised a dance upon the fine line of pain and pleasure he’d come to crave with both shame and pride.  
  
Isaak rolled the open seam of his trousers in on themselves, covering the metal of his zipper from biting into his skin then looked at the teen. “Strip,” he commanded, his deep voice caressing Dietrich’s already bared flesh. The redhead stepped out of his trousers, the shirt still hanging partially on his narrow shoulders. Isaak watched him straddle his lap, caramel eyes dilated. Dietrich’s cock pushed against Isaak’s abdomen as he moved closer to line himself up with the head of his mentor’s dick.  
  
The boy bit his lip and sucked in a breath as he lowered himself, his hands firmly holding onto Isaak’s shoulders. The head slowly slipped past the tight muscles that guarded Dietrich’s entrance and Isaak’s eyes narrowed dangerously. His hands flew up to take the boy’s shoulders and forced him down, his lips eating the cry that issued from Dietrich’s throat. Isaak hissed with the vice-like contact, his eyes still focused on the pair opposite. “It’s a little late to be crying like a virgin, dearest,” he admonished then let his brows fall. “You may fool whoever else has been fucking you, but I know better– don’t I?” Isaak’s fingernails bit into Dietrich’s shoulders and red wheals left their mark as his hands wended down the boy’s back to fit over his small hips.  
  
“Isaak,” Dietrich groaned, lifting himself up, eyes nearly closed with the pain of penetration and the scratches Isaak drew along his back. Dietrich pushed himself back down, an arm of his shirt falling over his shoulder with the rough movement. Isaak’s disconcerting gaze was locked on his face, eyes roaming over his parted lips and the passing of emotion that knotted his brows. Shallow breaths blasted from Dietrich, between drawn out moans and pleadings for more.  
  
The boy was a masochist in the most perfect definition of the word, begging for the pain associated with Isaak’s brand of brutal lovemaking; if such a soft term could be used. It was a beautiful slice of hell that Dietrich indulged in. In those moments, he knew he possessed Panzermagier as much as Isaak owned him. He was addicted to a dark, evil sadist and couldn’t be bothered to free himself of him.  
  
“You like that don’t you, dirty little boy?” Isaak hissed. His control annoyed Dietrich; wanting nothing more than to see the man lose himself. The teen’s moans echoed through the study as he rode Isaak’s lap. He knew he was bleeding– could smell it– and it eased the way for the mage’s dick, hard and hot within him and drilling his hotspot when Isaak let him roll his hips forward. He felt the man’s fingers dig into the flesh of his ass, parting him further and Dietrich’s hands gripped Isaak’s upper arms.  
  
“Yes, God!” he ground out, his hair falling into his eyes as he slammed up and down on Isaak, his nails drawing blood as they pressed into the tense muscles of the older male’s biceps. “Fuck me!” he added breathlessly, the chair groaning its protests.  
  
“Fuck _yourself_ , whore,” Isaak bit and leaned back in the seat, watching Dietrich do just that, his cock smacking against Isaak’s abs and leaving trails of precome along the defined skin. Isaak reached a hand between them and wiped a finger over the head of Dietrich’s cock, painting the boy’s lips with the moisture; biting back a groan when Dietrich took the finger in his mouth, sucking on it much as he’d worked the magician earlier. Isaak’s finger made a few passes between those sinful lips then pulled away.  
  
“Touch me,” Dietrich begged, his thighs burning, the tips of his hair damp with sweat. Isaak arched a brow and ran his hand down the boy’s chest.  
  
“Spoiled brat,” he retorted then wrapped his bare fist around Dietrich’s cock. Dietrich leaned forward to press lips to Isaak’s, coaxing the man’s tongue with his own. Once again, Isaak indulged his protégé, his tongue slipping between those full lips that tasted of fine chocolat and the flavour of his own skin. He managed to cut the boy’s lip with a tooth and licked at the few drops of blood that welled from the shallow cut. Isaak loosed a growl into Dietrich’s mouth and deepened the kiss, seeking to steal his breath in its intensity.  
  
Dietrich’s muffled moans vibrated around Isaak’s lips and he broke the kiss as he came, white hot ribbons against the raven’s chest. Isaak, for his part, frowned at the mess but ran the pads of his fingers through Dietrich’s come and presented them to the teen. “Filthy bitch,” he purred, unconcerned that Dietrich had stilled himself on his lap. His dick pulsed inside the redhead, demanding to be sated but he ignored it in favour of smearing the boy’s lips with his own release. Dietrich closed his eyes, his tongue darting out to clean his lips, a euphoric feeling washing over him despite the fact that Isaak’s cock was still firmly rooted within his body.  
  
“Meister,” he whispered then felt himself lifted as Isaak stood with him, hands planted firmly beneath his ass which then met the desk top. Isaak snapped his hips, driving into him and Dietrich fell to his back along the cool, polished wood; a flailing arm knocking the mage’s antique desklamp to the floor with a thud and a flicker of light. His arms locked above him and hands curled around the far edge of the desk, Dietrich drew his legs up to Isaak’s moving shoulders but still, that purposed look hung on the magician’s face– dark and devoid of any sense of care.  
  
Isaak began to murmur into Dietrich’s ear, purely blue speech in guttural German that peaked the teen’s nipples and woke his dick up for the third time that day. So what if earlier he literally got off watching Radu screw the Earl of Memphis– his possession of the Baron enabling him to acutely feel the tightness of Ion’s ass, to scent the boy’s climax with the sharper senses of a Methuselah and to feast on Ion’s anguished cries as his Tovarăş raped him. Almost as good as being there! Flamberg had cried in his mind as his body was used to harm the Earl, but Dietrich had simply laughed at him then threw his head back and came; the sensation doubling as Radu had peaked, buried in such exquisite flesh.  
  
He hadn’t realised that Isaak had finished within him until another swift slap stung his cheek and grey eyes bore down on him. “Clean up this mess,” he commanded, fastening his belt but left his shirt open. Isaak pushed a thick section of thigh-length hair behind his shoulder then stepped away from the desk, his jacket slung over an arm and passed through the door that led to his private rooms.


End file.
